


Cloying

by oliviathecf



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Moon Knight (Comics)
Genre: Dark fic, Fuck Or Die, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kinda, M/M, Sexual Coercion, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 03:10:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10453644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviathecf/pseuds/oliviathecf
Summary: Bushman has him down and out. Under threat of torture and death, Marc decides to offer his greatest enemy something he can't refuse.He probably should've just let Bushman kill him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings, please. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The taste of blood was all too familiar to Marc, coating his teeth and tongue with the feeling of thick, heated copper. The blood in his mouth was cloying and sickening, and Marc fought back the bile as he turned his head to spit a mix of blood, saliva, and shards of his teeth. Khonshu chuckled in his head, his God acting as the audience for this losing battle.

“When I ask for blood, this isn’t what I mean, my son.”

Marc didn’t have any time for a response or to move at all as Bushman’s boot met his stomach again and again, forcing him down for the last time. His costume was more red than white at this point, and his mask had ripped to reveal his face to his enemy, although Bushman already knew who he was.

Marc turned over to lay on his back, looking up into the sharp, pointed grin of Raoul Bushman. Blood trickled down the back of his throat and Marc coughed weakly, swallowing hard.

“I expected more from you, Spector.” Bushman spat his name like a curse.

Despite his words, he continued to wear that smirk on his tattooed face. His skin was splattered with Marc’s blood, teeth coated in a mixture of his own and Marc’s blood from where Bushman had bitten him on the neck. His tongue ran over those far-too-sharp teeth, licking off the red, and Bushman chuckled lowly. He lifted his foot and stepped down hard on Marc’s upturned, exposed stomach.

“What, oh what, am I going to do with you?”

Once more, Marc tried to struggle up but Bushman held him down. Marc went limp, head lolling to the side as Khonshu appeared before him. He looked at those forever-pristine white shoes, trailing his gaze up to the avian skull of his God.

“He’s going to kill you, my son.”

“I... I know.”

His God’s hands were folded together as he stared down at Marc.

“I can bring you back, but I can’t stop him from making this very painful for you.”

“Okay.”

“Now, brace yourself, my son,” Khonshu said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Bushman’s fist hit his face hard, breaking his nose with a sickening crunch and a splatter of blood. Without the mask, the scarlet liquid dripped down his face freely, coloring his lips a sick red. His tongue darted out to catch the trickle, blood once more filling his mouth. Dazed eyes looked up into the face of his greatest rival, and shame flooded over him instantly.

He had lost. And Bushman was going to have fun killing him.

“I’ve been waiting for this day for a very, very long time, Spector.”

He sounded jubilant as he peeled his filthy gloves from his hands, dropping them into a pool of Marc’s blood with a wet splatter. Marc tried to push back but quickly found his head hitting the brick wall of the alley where he had been cornered.

There was no escape. Bushman was going to kill him and he was going to take his time doing it.

“I want to feel your bones break with my hands,” Bushman growled down at him.

Dazed, blurry eyes looked up at him, and Marc wondered when he had started crying as the tears flowed over, washing over the blood from a cut on his face. The salt stung but he found it easy to ignore when his entire body ached.

When Marc opened his mouth, he couldn’t stop the words from vomiting out of his mouth.

“Please, just... just kill me. Raoul, please. Please.” 

More shame flooded over him, heat flushing all the way down his spine. He felt pathetic and small as Bushman looked down at him, disgust clearly written over his face. The smirk fell from his mouth, replaced by a grimace.

“Have some respect for yourself, man. I’m going to kill you of course, but we’re going to have some fun.”

Bushman took out a combat knife and Marc wondered why he hadn’t taken it out during the fight. He pressed the blade into the hair covered jaw of Marc’s face, tracing a line down his jaw until he dug the point into the softer flesh under his chin. The sharp tip pressed just into the flesh, another part of him that bled for Bushman.

“What are you going to do to me?” Marc heard himself say.

“Do you really want to know?”

Marc hesitated before nodding frantically, and Bushman gave him another grin.

“Okay. Well, first, I’m going to take a few of your fingers,” Bushman reached down and grabbed his hand tightly, “You’re not going to need them anymore anyway and, well, I think it’s only fair that I take something of yours.”

Bushman moved the knife down to his hand, sliding the flat edge over Marc’s fingers just so he could feel the cold steel against his skin. He forced himself not to shiver, and Bushman put the knife down to move his hand up to Marc’s neck, gripping at him.

“Next, I’m going to choke you a bit. Maybe I’ll stuff that stupid cape of yours down your throat, I’m not sure yet. Just until you’re about to pass out, and then I’ll pull back. I won’t be ready for this to end just yet.” 

He squeezed once, fingers tightening until Marc had to open his mouth to draw frantic breaths, before removing his hand and jabbing a finger towards one of Marc’s eyes.

“I’ll take one of these after. Just one though, I still want you to see what’s going on. After that, I’ll flay open one of your arms and play with your bones a bit. Then we’ll see what I feel like doing, we should play it by ear.”

“Okay,” Marc whispered, looking away.

“After that, I’ll rip you open and take your heart.”

Bushman reached down and grabbed his hand again, pulling off one of Marc’s white gloves and picking his knife up off the ground.

“Why don’t we get started?”

Bushman moved slowly and Marc’s eyes squeezed shut. However, when the sharp end of the blade cut into his finger, Marc’s mouth moved before his mind could.

“Nnn... wait.”

“What? No, I'm not waiting, Spector. We're on my time now.”

The knife continued to move and Marc gasped, eyes flying open.

“Please, I’ll do anything.”

That got Bushman’s attention. He hesitated, pulling the knife back.

“Like what?”

Marc bit his lip, flushing red. A trembling hand moved down, lifting his remaining shreds of the top of his costume up, showing off tight, lean muscles. In his mind, Khonshu laughed and, in front of him, Bushman’s jaw dropped.

“That’s pathetic, even for you, Spector.”

“Pathetic and desperate,” Khonshu supplied in his mind, still laughing.

Despite that, Bushman put his knife away.

“Well, let me see before I agree to anything.”

Marc got to his feet, swaying from the blood loss. Leaning against the wall, he pushed his tight pants down to his ankles, throwing the athletic cup aside. His cock was soft but it reacted when he wrapped his hand around it.

“Let me help,” Khonshu murmured in his mind, and Marc found it easier to get hard.

Just a few strokes and he was full and heavy in his hand.

“That’s all fine and dandy, Spector, but you know I don’t care about that. Turn around.”

Shame burned through him and Marc turned around before his entire face turned scarlet. Bushman laughed, stepping up close behind Marc. Blood slicked fingers gripped hard at his ass, pushing him against the wall. 

The rough, filthy bricks tore at Marc’s cheek as Bushman explored his backside with his hands. One big palm withdrew only to come back down with a harsh, loud slap. Marc winced, fingers gripping tight at the filthy bricks, scrambling to find purchase against the wall.

He only succeeded at tearing up the skin of his fingers, blood dripping down his hand. 

Bushman curved a huge hand around his bare hip, fingertips roughened by the handle of a knife and the grip on his guns, spinning him around until he was face to face with his greatest enemy. The sharp grin that split his face hadn't fallen since Marc offered his body to Bushman, pointed teeth bared at him.

“On your knees, Moon Knight,” Bushman said, tone harsh and rude as he spat out Marc's name.

Marc had no other choice but to drop to his knees. Bare skin hit the ground, tearing his costume further. Rough gravel ripped into his skin and he winced, holding back a whine.

Bushman pulled his cock out of his pants, pressing the blood-darkened head against his mouth. He was thick and heavy, smelling of sweat and musk in a way that wouldn't be repulsive in any other circumstances. Bushman took care of himself it seemed--the taste of his pre-cum was salty and not too bitter. 

His jaw ached as Bushman pressed into his mouth, stretching his jaw wide open. Saliva leaked from his lips and down his chin, and Bushman smeared it across his face as he grabbed Marc's chin and began to thrust roughly into his mouth and down his throat.

The taste wasn't bad but the feeling of him--thick and long, bumping the back of his throat--made Marc's eyes water. Tears leaked down his face as Bushman took what he wanted.

He gripped at Bushman's pant legs, bunching the fabric up under his fists as Bushman used him. There was nothing he could do but take whatever Bushman gave to him, opening his throat as wide as he could to avoid choking. Marc tried to breathe through his nose, fighting hard to get any air. Each and every breath smelled like Bushman--musk and sweat, thick and masculine.

He felt like he was drowning in it.

“Fuck, if you weren't such a killer, I'd think that you were made for this,” Bushman growled, voice low and rough. 

He groaned as he thrust once more into Marc's mouth before pulling back. He sucked in gasping breaths, doubling over. The air hurt his abused throat, burning on the way down to his deprived lungs.

Bushman grabbed him by brown, sweaty strands of hair, pulling him up and pushing him back up against the brick wall. Marc found himself in the same position as before, scrambling to find purchase against rough bricks but only adding to the smears of blood on the filthy surface.

A huge, blunt finger prodded at his hole and Marc cried out, biting back the other noises that threatened to fill the air between them.

“He's only doing this for himself, my son,” Khonshu murmured in his head.

The finger pushed into him, dry save for the slick, hot blood on Bushman’s hand. The copper scent of blood filled the air as Bushman pushed two fingers in and out of him.

“You're pretty tight for such a slut, Spector. I'm surprised, considering how eager you were to offer this little arrangement up.”

Bushman’s laughter, dark and spiteful, would haunt him long after they finished here. He would wake up in the middle of the night, dreaming of this, hearing Bushman’s laughter in his ears. The low sound of it and the feeling of his lips pressed against Marc's ear wouldn't leave him for a long time.

That and the feeling of Bushman’s cock, thick and heavy, pressing into his hole. The head stretched him to the limit, burning and hot as he sunk in with little preparation. The only lube was Marc's blood and saliva, and it wasn't enough to soothe the burn. Marc whined pitifully and gripped tighter at the wall as Bushman continued to slide into him. He was relentless, pressing hard into Marc's tight ass. Bushman’s hand gripped tightly at his hair, pulling at the roots before pushing him into the wall. The bricks tore at his cheek and Bushman finally bottomed out, Marc's bare ass pressing against the fabric of his pants.

Cold sweat broke out over his body and Marc shivered despite the searing heat inside of him. Bushman's dick was far too large to be comfortable but Marc knew that this had nothing to do with his comfort. The only thing that mattered was Bushman's pleasure and, from the moaning behind him, he was getting all the pleasure he needed.

“Fuck, you're pretty tight for such a little whore. Maybe I am special and you don't spread ‘em for every man who asks, hm?”

Marc’s cheeks burned with shame and with the effort it took to keep from panicking. It was hard to breathe and tears were already leaking from his eyes. Marc's heart threatened to pound out of his chest, and the humiliation he felt at at Bushman's words didn't help. A panicked gasp bubbled out of him, and his fingers twitched. Bushman's cock deep in his ass reminded him of what was happening, bringing his mind right back whenever it tried to run away from him.

He felt like he was dying. This was worse than the torture that Bushman had promised him.

The feeling of cool hands against his clammy face, however, stopped the rising panic inside of him. He opened his eyes and looked over to see his God standing to the side of him, crooning in the language of Old Gods and in modern Egyptian Arabic, alternating between phrases lost to the ages and ones known to all.

Bushman began a rough pace behind him, fucking in and out of him as Khonshu reached for his cock, hanging limply between his legs.

“Nnn--! No…” Marc whined, and Bushman and Khonshu both laughed.

“It's a bit too late for that, Spector!” Bushman said, roaring with laughter and pushing Marc harder into the wall.

Khonshu gripped on his cock and began to stroke him. The hand around him was slow and cool against his burning skin, pulling him to full hardness in no time at all. Pleasure began to well up alongside the panic, a thick whimper leaving his throat as he desperately shook his head at his God. He didn't want the pleasure that Khonshu offered him, but he didn't have much choice in the matter as Khonshu continued to jerk him off.

“I think you need the distraction, Marc.”

Khonshu’s tone was partially comforting, but partially mocking. Bushman thrust up against his prostate, purely by accident, but Marc still felt mortified by the strangled moan that left his lips.

“I shouldn't be surprised, Spector, but you keep on surprising me regardless.”

Bushman continued to thrust into that spot and hot shame crept down Marc's spine. He couldn't hold back the noises any longer. The pair moaned in unison, and Marc's hips rolled back against his will. 

Khonshu's hand stroked him, fist creating a channel for him to fuck into whenever Bushman thrust into him. He was stuck between the thick weight of Bushman behind him and his ever-present Lord in front of him, as well as the rough brick wall he was braced up against. His God amplified the pleasure for him, heat running through him to match the shame that followed. 

The heat and lust that ran through him was too much, but he couldn't cum yet. Khonshu was stopping him, so he could only shudder and cry out. Each breath that left him was a broken, pitiful sob, and tears leaked down his cheeks. Bushman continued to fuck into him roughly before slowing down and stopping.

Bushman’s hands gripped his hips and began pulling him back onto his dick. Bushman was using him for his pleasure, pulling Marc back instead of thrusting into him. Brown eyes went wide and he tried to wriggle out of Bushman's hold, but he was relentless in the way he used Marc, holding tightly to him. 

Khonshu chuckled darkly and released his hold. The pleasure was blinding as Marc came with a shout, Bushman's dick pressing up against his prostate. He painted the wall in front of him with ropes of thick, white cum, joining the rest of the dirt and blood with a mess of a different kind.

One more push and Bushman was finished as well, cumming deep inside of him and filling him up with heat. He groaned lowly, fucking into Marc as he finished, pushing his cum deeper inside. Marc shivered, whining softly.

They sat like that for a few moments, Bushman still buried deep inside of him. Khonshu’s gloved hand stroked Marc’s face and hair. His God wiped the tears from his cheeks, brushing aside the ones that followed the first ones. Marc clung to the wall, muffling his cries in his arm. He felt used and pathetic, the scent of what they had just done and what he allowed to happen filling the air.

The worst part was that he offered this. Bushman hadn’t even thought of him like that before this had happened. Before he exposed himself and let Bushman take from him. He felt sick to his stomach, wanting to bend over and spill its contents right next to the puddle of his blood and the shreds of his costume.

Bushman broke through his thoughts with a low, throaty laugh.

“Well, that was fun. You're a good lay, Spector. It's almost a shame that I still have to kill you. Almost.”

Bushman pulled out and threw Marc to the side, tucking himself away and grabbing for his discarded knife. He was slower now, head thick with pleasure, and Jake Lockley took over for Marc. He scrambled to his feet and ran out of the alley, head filled with the laughter of his counterpart’s God and the thought that Marc just should've let Bushman kill him.

Jake made it back to Marc's apartment in what seemed like record time, moving across rooftops and through alleys to get there. He came in through the fire escape window and stripped out of the remains of his costume before stepping in.

Scalding hot water burned against his skin, and Jake tipped his head back to wash the dirt and sweat out of his hair.

Jake had to be strong for both Marc and Steven, fingers rubbing shampoo into his filthy hair. He could break even if he wanted to. He wouldn't be able to stop the inevitable but he could hold it back for now, long enough to clean the grime off of their shared body. 

And it was inevitable. The tide of panic that threatened to spill out, held back by tightly clenched teeth. Soon it would rush out and neither he nor Steven or Marc, or even Khonshu would be able to do anything to hold it back. 

He could wash out the cum in his ass and the blood from fight, but the feeling of Bushman surrounding him, the ghost of his fingertips pressing into his skin would last far longer than the pink and brown water swirling down the drain.

**Author's Note:**

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